


The Twelfth Man

by dietplainlite



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cricket, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sherlolly - Freeform, Teenlock, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:32:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1298326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dietplainlite/pseuds/dietplainlite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hasn’t a clue what he’s doing.  He deleted the rules sometime after the last game he played in primary school.  </p><p>Collaboration with nicolebrander based on her fantastic artwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Twelfth Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nicolebrander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicolebrander/gifts).



> Artwork by Nicole Brander. Please do not re-post artwork.

  


He hasn’t a clue what he’s doing.  He deleted the rules sometime after the last game he played in primary school.  They sent him in after Prakash jammed his index finger, and so far he’s been able to stand in the outfield with little to do outside of his mind.  He’s working on his analysis of hair care products when the sound of the ball cracking on the bat indicates the batsman might just score a six.  He looks up.  Yeah it’s definitely heading his way.  He supposes he might need to at least try to catch it.

Sherlock keeps an eye on the ball as he runs toward the spot where it will land if he doesn’t catch it.  He’s starting to like the idea of plucking it from the air when his right foot lands wrong on a patch of dew and he tumbles to the ground gracelessly.  The ball lands three feet away and he sits up.  He shakes his head and shields his eyes from the sun in order to scan the spectators.  He hopes she didn’t see that.

“Don’t be daft,” he mutters.  “Of course she saw it.”

Luckily, after that, Prakash’s finger is magically healed enough to play and Sherlock is sent back to the bench.  He completes his hair care analysis while ignoring the not so gentle ribbing of his teammates. 

After, he smiles as Molly separates herself from her friends when he walks past.  He slows down enough for her to catch up.

“Bad luck out there,” she says.   

“Yes, well, I’m no Chandrasekhar.”

Molly looks up at him.  “What?”

“That cricketer I heard you gushing about with Sally last week.”

Molly stops and puts her hand on his arm to stop him.  He winces as her thumb grazes his skinned elbow.  “Sorry,” she says and he shrugs it off.  “Is that why you suddenly joined the cricket team after turning your nose up at team sports ever since you got here?”  

Sherlock shrugs again and looks down. 

“I’m not going to ask why you were eavesdropping on my conversation, but I’m sure you had to have been half in that head of yours if you thought we were talking about a cricketer.  We were talking about Subrahmanyan Chandrasekhar.  The astrophysicist?  Won the Nobel prize for his work on the evolution of stars?”  Sherlock’s mouth forms a thin line as he draws a blank. She sighs and starts walking again, this time taking his hand, or rather his thumb, as they haven’t progressed quite to full hand holding yet.  “Come on, sport.  I’ve got some plasters in my purse.  Let’s take a look at those elbows.”

They sit on a park bench and Molly pulls out a miniature first aid kit. 

“That’s a bit more than a few plasters,” he points out. She blushes and he kicks himself. He knows she’s often teased for her fastidiousness.  “It’s good to be…prepared.”

She smiles and opens an alcohol swab.  It’s cold and it stings as it meets his raw elbow, but he barely notices, enjoying the closeness of her body and the way her hair is almost red in the sun.  She blows on the wound gently.  “I know I’m not supposed to do that,” she says. “Germs and all.  But I don’t think it’s that big a danger, and it’s something my mum always did. I figure everyone’ s mum did, maybe.  So maybe it’s comforting.  I dunno.”  She squeezes some antibiotic ointment onto a plaster, which she expertly presses onto his elbow.  She glances up and smiles when she catches him looking at her.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice cracking. 

She packs away the kit and stands up.  “Anytime.  And you don’t have to keep playing if you don’t want to. Now, I’ve got course work, but I’ll see you later?”

“Yes,” he says.

She kisses two fingers and places them on his cheek. “Good.  And by the way, you look outstanding in your whites.”


End file.
